


Clothes and Vices

by veni



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veni/pseuds/veni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re in the dressing room in the back of some terrible Bemidji clothing store on a goddamn Wednesday afternoon and Wrench has no right, no fucking right to look so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes and Vices

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous requested the following: _Wrench and Numbers shopping for clothes an one find the other SO DAMN HOT that they end up FRICKING in the changing room._ I hope I delivered.
> 
> The title comes from a slightly edited quote from _King Lear_ : “Through tattered clothes great vices do appear,” Act 4, Scene 6

Sometimes Numbers forgets how handsome Wrench is, and when it hits him it’s a slap to the face. They’re in the dressing room in the back of some terrible Bemidji clothing store on a goddamn Wednesday afternoon and Wrench has no right, no fucking right to look so good. _Christ_. He doesn’t even look that different, it’s the same stupid jeans from the outlet mall in Fargo and the boots from Arizona but the shirt, Numbers realizes, it’s the fucking shirt. It’s black and new and far too tight, and Wrench has it on without his idiot tasseled jacket and without that, without the godforsaken jacket, Numbers can see his _arms_. Numbers hasn’t seen Wrench’s arms in ages, they’ve both been buried in clothing and freezing their asses off for so long that for a moment Numbers had forgotten just how _muscular_ —ah, fuck. He feels himself flush and he scowls, and Wrench stands there staring at him like he’s a goddamn red-faced lunatic, which, Numbers reflects, he probably is.

 

 _You don’t like it?_ Wrench signs.

 

Numbers likes it. He likes the shirt because it makes him want to drop to his knees and press his face into Wrench’s groin and suck him dry.

 

He hates the shirt for the same reason.

 

 _It’s fine_ , he signs back. _Buy it and let’s get out of here_.

 

_You look pissed._

 

_I do not._

 

Wrench shrugs, an innocuous gesture that in the tight black shirt becomes unbearably erotic. It’s the slow rolling motion of his broad shoulders that does it, and Numbers feels his face heat up again. He clenches his jaw, swallows. Fuck it. _Get in the dressing room_ , he signs quickly, and Wrench obliges without hesitation, a look of vague confusion on his face.

 

With a backward glance at the storefront—no attendants in sight, thank god—Numbers slides into the dressing room, kicking the door shut and thanking his luck that the door reaches all the way to the ground.

 

 _Well this is new_ , Wrench signs. He leans back against the wall and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“Fuck you,” Numbers hisses. He drops to the floor and Wrench smirks.

 

_There isn’t enough room for that._

 

Numbers huffs, signs up something rude and decidedly not ASL-approved before he grasps Wrench by the hips and yanks his pants and boxers down in one rough practiced motion, exposing his skin to the cool confined air of the room. His cock is half-hard. Numbers glances up at him and Wrench just _stares_ , eyes burning, cock twitching, and when Numbers leans forward to swallow him down to the base his head hits the wall with a tremendous smack. Numbers laughs, and the vibrations of it in his throat makes Wrench groan. _Shut up or we’re fucked_ , Numbers signs, or tries to sign, his hands contorted at a weird angle. All Wrench makes out is _fucked_ and he groans again.

 

Numbers gives head like a tsunami, sucking all the life back into the sea before the rumbling surging ocean pulses forward in an earth-quaking bout of energy that leaves Wrench empty down to his core. Numbers gives head like he was born to do it. He presses his face into the thick thatch of hair covering Wrench’s groin and he knows his beard scratches Wrench’s thighs and he knows that Wrench will never, ever complain about it because Wrench loves all of Numbers’ stupid body hair and Wrench thinks the beard in particular makes him look _distinguished_.

 

Above him, Wrench is coming undone. Numbers can see his chest heaving beneath the damnable black shirt, and every deep breath Wrench takes stretches the material taut across the broad expanse of his chest. One hand is braced against the wall. The other is threaded through Numbers’ hair, anchoring him in place. Numbers kneels like a supplicant at his feet while the hand grounds him, fingers kneading his skull while Wrench’s cock sits thick and heavy in his throat, a living weight on his tongue. It pulses in tandem with his heartbeat.

 

Numbers’ cock is so hard it _aches_ ; he presses the heel of his hand against the bulge of it and practically keens, he’s so fucking worked up. But Wrench is fucking his face and his presence is such a preoccupation that Numbers does not have the composure, the equanimity required to pull himself out and so he does not, he does nothing but rut against his own hand like a bitch in heat while Wrench slides his cock impossibly deep into the raw recess of Numbers’ throat. It burns a little, and Numbers feels his eyes water, but it’s the sort of burn he craves. Life, electric and dangerous.

 

Numbers can tell the exact moment before Wrench falls over the edge by the way the fingers in his hair tighten, from an encouraging kneading stroke to a vice-grip that locks him in place, immobile. It’s a show of strength, a naked reminder of the brute force Wrench is capable of, and it drives Numbers absolutely fucking _wild_. Something fissures and cracks in the galaxy of his mind and suddenly Numbers is coming in his pants like a teenager, and when he feels Wrench’s release pulse hot in his throat Numbers lets out an embarrassingly desperate noise, a sort of choked-down guttural moan that makes Numbers’ grateful his partner is deaf.

 

After Numbers swallows him down it’s like the continents have shifted—the heavy anchoring hand is released and Wrench and Numbers slide like tectonic plates righting themselves after an earthquake. Wrench pulls his dick out and tucks himself back in his pants while Numbers rises, a bit shakily, and checks his beard for any sign of impropriety. Wrench leans forward and smoothes down Numbers’ hair, tucking the errant strands back into place. It’s an attentive and soft gesture that Numbers pretends to tolerate but secretly adores. The fact that this big strong dangerous man is so fucking _gentle_ with him is immeasurably pleasing.

 

They manage to leave the store without causing a scene, although the woman at the cash register gives them a bit of an odd look when Numbers pays for the shirt.


End file.
